


Penumbra

by Impavidus



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-04-11 15:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19112167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impavidus/pseuds/Impavidus
Summary: 30 years post-Wild Hunt, Kaer Morhen trains witchers once again as monsters multiply out of control and the Northern Realms and Nilfgaard alike rumble with preparations for all-out war. Albtraum, a young graduate of the Wolf School, and Derek, a lone griffin, walk the Path together and find that sometimes neutrality is not an option a witcher can take.Includes a wide cast of both canon characters and OCs.





	1. Chapter 1

_KAER MORHEN, DECEMBER 1282_

It had been a literal century since Brunhart had returned to Kaer Morhen for a wintering, and he was surprised to find it in much worse condition than last he’d left it. The old walls were crumbling, some of them reduced to rubble.

It was cold, and a persistent wind whistled through the trees above him as he scaled the path to the gates of Kaer Morhen.

He was moderately surprised, as he neared, to catch the scent of smoke – someone was there. Last he’d heard, Geralt was well settled and retired in Toussaint, but perhaps some of Vesemir’s other students had settled in for the winter.

His pace slowed as he entered the fortress, finding it eerily silent in spite of the telltale smoke. Perhaps he had been mistaken… Perhaps the castle was well and truly empty.

He made his way inside, finding it dark, but his sharpened senses easily cut through the dim light. He could hear movement, distant – perhaps a monster or a bear that had made its home inside, or perhaps there were other witchers here.

Brunhart gently set his rucksack of supplies against the wall, quickly making his way over to the makeshift library that had been set up amongst the crates and shelves in the center of the fortress’ great hall.

He had a purpose in returning to Kaer Morhen after so much time, and he hoped his venture would not be cut short before it began.

With relief, he realized the texts and formulae he needed were still on the shelves. Gingerly, he thumbed through one of the books. The writing was faded, but legible; instructions on how to make witchers. How to brew potions. Some of this information dated back to when Brunhart himself was first trained here at the keep.

He was so deeply absorbed in reading that he did not sense someone approach until he heard the telltale clicking of a crossbow moving into position to fire.

He glanced up. A young witcher stood ten paces from him, fury in his gaze, a crossbow aimed at his head.

Brunhart set aside the tome in his hands as the witcher began to question him. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Brunhart raised an eyebrow at the man. “Last I was aware, any witchers of the wolf school are welcome to spend their winters in Kaer Morhen.”

The other witcher squinted at him, tensing as Brunhart removed and tossed over his medallion.

He caught the medallion out of the air and eyed Brunhart carefully as he no doubt came to the realization that he was a witcher as well. Slowly, he lowered his crossbow as another witcher approached behind him. He looked vaguely familiar, but Brunhart was sure if they had met, he hadn’t had such a scar across his face.

“What’s going on, Lambert?”

The younger witcher scoffed, showing the other the medallion. “Looks like there’s been another wolf out there we didn’t know about. “

The older witcher took the medallion and examined it. “Damn. Well then, welcome home, brother.” He tossed the medallion back, and Brunhart snatched it from the air.

The witcher who had been addressed as Lambert looked highly offended. “Really? That it? He waltzes in here like he owns the place and you’re practically holding the goddamn door for him?”

The older witcher sighed heavily. “Hate to break it to you, Lambert, but he _does_ own the place, at least as much as we do. Gonna be a hell of a long winter if you keep this up.”

“He can at least tell us who the fuck he is,” Lambert snorted, tossing aside his crossbow.

“Brunhart,” he answered. “I was Vesemir’s classmate.”

An emotion Brunhart couldn’t place flashed across Lambert’s face. “…Ah. Old man’s dead.”

“So I’ve heard,” Brunhart replied. “Not too many of us left now.”

“More than the other schools at the least,” the other witcher interjected with a mirthless chuckle. “I’m Eskel, by the way.”

Brunhart recalled the name, and realized he had indeed met the man before, when he was only a teenager. “We’ve met. But it was so long ago, I doubt you remember.”

Eskel looked carefully at him. “No… Sorry.”

“You and Geralt weren’t particularly interested in speaking with me. I believe you were making traps for drowners.”

Eskel chuckled. “Oh, yeah. I remember.” His posture relaxed as he seemed to realize Brunhart was being truthful about his identity, offering up a memory he only could have known if he truly was a witcher.

Lambert did not seem as convinced, and glared suspiciously at him. “What were you doing nosing through the Trial texts, anyhow?”

Brunhart leaned against one of the tables, slipping his medallion back around his neck. “I’ve decided it’s time to start the school up once again. Monsters are replicating like weeds, and with the state of things right now, more witchers are a dire necessity.”

Eskel grimaced. “Yeah… things have gotten bad enough on the roads we don’t even go down the mountain much anymore.”

Lambert, however, fumed. “ _What?_ Are you serious? You’re going to put more boys through that hell just because there’s a few more _monsters_ cropping up?”

Eskel frowned and looked over at him. “Lambert…”

Lambert snarled. “Don’t talk to me like that.” He turned for the door and shoved over the shelf in his way, sending bottles shattering on the floor and books scattering. He stomped for the door, without looking back, and disappeared past the gate.

Brunhart raised an eyebrow as Eskel let out a huge sigh.

“Just give him a while… He’ll cool off.”

Brunhart was unsure of whether to trust that statement, but he retrieved his belongings from where he had set them and followed Eskel toward the area where they had set up the beds.

Eskel was friendly and welcoming, showing Brunhart around the ruined remnants of the castle. Much had changed in the years since Brunhart had last wintered here decades ago, but it was still the same fortress, the same aging stone walls and wind whistling through the gaps in the windows.

At last, Eskel brought him to an old bed. It wasn’t made up in finery, and smelled musty with age, but it was more comfortable than anything Brunhart had slept on in a long time. He had been on the road for so long that for the first time he felt his age beginning to catch him up, a dull ache deep in his bones as he leaned back on the straw mattress.

The sun had barely broken the horizon the next morning when Brunhart was awakened by Lambert stomping into the room, huffing. Brunhart sat up, looking at him expectantly.

“Fine,” he said simply, offering no context or introduction. “I’ll do it. But it’s going to be different this time. I’m not going to send a bunch of ill-prepared kids off into the cities to get paid nothing and die in a ditch.”

“I agree,” Brunhart replied reasonably. “I’m certainly open to your ideas.”

Lambert’s scowl turned confused as an eyebrow cocked, and he seemed surprised at Brunhart’s reply. “Uh… Right.”

“Professions evolve over time to be better. Witchers should be no different,” Brunhart stated, pulling on his boots as Lambert watched. “No doubt you've learned many things on the Path that could improve the training of future witchers.”

Lambert seemed caught off guard. His voice was low and unsteady as he answered, “...Yeah. Think a lot of things should be different if there's going to be more of us.

The three of them spent the next few days in the hall, sat around a fire. Lambert eventually warmed up to Brunhart, or at least spoke to him with a sort of begrudging respect. Brunhart was almost reminded of his winters as a young witcher, sharing insights with his brothers, knowing there was no telling who would be present the next year. Their numbers dwindled; eventually he stopped returning.

Much of their time was spent reading through the texts in detail, picking apart every tradition and instruction with a fine toothed comb.

“A witcher is a lone hunter,” Brunhart recited, thumbing through the pages.

Lambert scoffed. “Bullshit. Especially for us. We’re _wolves,_ damnit, you ever seen a wolf hunting by itself?”

Eskel hummed thoughtfully. “You’ve got a point.”

Brunhart nodded. “It’s a needless and arbitrary tradition for witchers to hunt alone.”

Lambert huffed. “Yeah, and… if we are gonna die on the Path, it shouldn’t be alone with no one to remember us.”

Brunhart made a mark in the book.

Lambert leaned back in his seat, staring into the low-burning fire as he pondered. “Oh, and we’re getting rid of Sad Albert.”

Eskel considered it, briefly, before nodding his agreement. “Yeah. Don’t even know why we still have it, honestly.”

“Throw it off the highest cliff. Into the chasm. Fuck it, just give it to Ol’ Speartip to pick his teeth with for all I care. I just don’t want it anywhere near here.”

Brunhart raised an eyebrow. “Sad Albert?”

“The table they use for the Trial,” Eskel interjected. “Our class started calling it that.”

Brunhart shuddered at the vague and distant memory of his own Trial, the horridly uncomfortable metal table prospective witchers were bound to as their bodies were destroyed and rebuilt by the mutations. “I have no objections to that.”

“It’s horrible enough as it is, there’s no reason to make the process even more horrible.” Lambert tossed aside the tome in his hands. “Honestly, we should just do away with _everything._ Completely rebuild the training from the ground up.”

“Important question,” Eskel interrupted. “Where are we gonna get students? We can’t just go invoke the Law of Surprise enough times to fill the school.”

Brunhart glanced at the fire himself, deep in thought. “All the north is in the middle of a plague,” he muttered. “I’d wager we’re likely to find all manner of children who are on death’s door.”

Lambert’s frustrated expression softened slightly. “So they’d die anyway, without the Trial.”

“Precisely.”

He sighed. “We should give them a choice. I don’t want anyone forced into this life the way I was.”

Brunhart nodded slowly. “Wouldn’t be the most effective to teach unwilling students, anyhow.”

Their discussions ceased for the most part, but one decision had been made – they would travel to Velen, the last hold of Temeria, to seek out students.


	2. Chapter 2

The witchers talked little on the road after they set off. The winter was sure to kill off many victims of the plague, and they wanted to get there in time to have any students left to take back to Kaer Morhen. A grim undertaking, they knew, and none of them felt the need to speak on it.

As time passed, Brunhart observed the younger witchers carefully. Eskel was calm and collected; little seemed to phase him, such that Brunhart was unsure what to really think of him. Lambert, on the other hand, left nothing to be wondered at. He spoke his mind, openly, freely, regardless of who might have an opinion of his words or what that opinion might be.

On occasion he asked Brunhart of Vesemir, and their times training together. Brunhart obliged him, but was unsure what he hoped to learn. Each answer furrowed his brow in a mix of frustration and sadness.

A long spell on the road with little expenses had allowed Brunhart plenty of time to amass a good deal of coin – coin that proved necessary to their endeavor once they arrived in Velen. As it turned out, rumors of witchers stealing away children had persisted well over the years in spite of a lack of evidence, and people were quite eager to give up their dying offspring to the group of witchers that travelled through – anything to remove the plague from their homes.

Lambert seemed to consider protesting after the fifth child was handed off to them, but kept quiet as Brunhart set about purchasing more supplies for the journey. Carts, horses, food, blankets. One night they bought out several rooms of an inn so the boys could wash and sleep in beds – a few of them died that night.

It was disheartening for those who remained. Lambert stewed silently, but Eskel tried to keep spirits as high as he could, teaching the boys songs, telling them about Kaer Morhen. Lambert passed out food, made sure the boys had warm blankets, but Brunhart could see he kept them at arms' length, knowing very few would survive.

They were stopped for supplies in Lindenvale, considering whether or not they should turn back. Fifteen boys remained of all those they had collected along the way, and they seemed strong enough to withstand a little longer on the road. But Catriona was fickle, unpredictable. They could all be dead within the week.

Brunhart stood with the carts, watching as Eskel and Lambert looked around. Folk were leery of them – a lone witcher set people ill at ease, and three traveling together was all but unheard of.

One of the boys coughed and crawled to the front of the wagon. He was scrawny and weak, but the shape of his sunken cheeks suggested that he had been much pudgier before the plague had taken hold of him. Brunhart remembered the name he'd given was Rand.

“Will we get to go back home again soon?” he asked in a weak and raspy voice.

Brunhart sighed. He couldn't lie to the boy, but he deserved some kind of comfort, in the state he was in. “I'm afraid not. But if all goes well there'll be a new home waiting for you at Kaer Morhen.”

Rand frowned, his patchy brows knit together as he settled back into the wagon. “I want to see Mama...”

Brunhart held himself back from speaking the truth – that he could not go back home to his mother, because she herself had been all too eager to hand him over to the witchers without so much as a wave goodbye. It was cruel, and Brunhart thought after multiple centuries of witnessing human cruelty that he might have grown accustomed. He had not.

Eskel approached, with Lambert in tow, both looking downtrodden. “Not much in the way of supplies here,” he muttered. “Sounds like Scoiatael have been ambushing the merchants traveling through, stealing all of the goods, and hoarding them in their camps.”

Brunhart frowned. “Well, they won't trade with humans, but perhaps they will with us. It's worth trying.”

Lambert sighed and kicked at the snow-covered ground. “You can talk to them. Think it'll just be a waste of time, though.”

Following the words of the townspeople, the witchers tracked their way to the edge of the woods – where a large encampment of elves stood, bustling with activity and clearly laden with plentiful supplies. A few observed the witchers as they drew closer, but seemed unbothered by their approach.

One elf, an older male, signaled to Brunhart to come closer, and Brunhart carefully did so, leaving Lambert and Eskel with the wagons.

“I trust you've not been sent with a contract on us, _vatt'ghern._ Skilled as you are, our archers would leave you and your companions dead where you stand before you had the chance to draw your blades.”

Brunhart hadn't failed to notice the archers waiting in the trees nearby as he had entered the camp. He also had not failed to notice that their postures suggested nervousness, and the way they held their bows told that they would have to be exceedingly lucky to kill any of the witchers in a single shot.

But he let the elf have his bluff.

“We'd like to trade for supplies if you'd be agreeable to it. I'm afraid all I have in the way of payment is Novigrad crowns, but you'll find most Velen merchants accept them,” Brunhart offered in a low, even tone.

“Collecting students, are you?” The elf nodded to the wagon, where some of the boys peered out curiously at the camp. “We will sell you a small amount of supplies, if you wish, but with a condition.”

“And what would that be?”

The elf turned toward the edge of the camp, where rows of graves lay with dirt mounded over the top of them. A young elf – not more than ten, if Brunhart had to guess – sat unmoving next to one of the graves.

“That one – he goes with you. His mother died of plague, and it was her wish that no harm befall her son. But we believe him to be a bastard of the Wild Hunt. He will bring nothing but misfortune to us. You are collecting students anyhow… Take him with you.”

Brunhart saw no reason to object. He nodded, to the elf and then to Eskel, who stepped forward to arrange the trading of the supplies as Brunhart walked over to the elf child to fetch him.

The child glanced up at Brunhart as he approached, but did not move. “Come to kill me, _d'hoine?”_

He had the voice of a child, but the words sounded ages older. Jaded and cynical.

Brunhart knelt down to his eye level. “No. Come to take you with us, in fact.”

The child looked back at him with lifeless eyes. They were milky, icy blue, and his hair was night black. Brunhart was unsure if the elder elf's statement of his parentage was true… but he certainly looked it.

“Fine. I'm going to die anyway.” He stood without argument, glancing around the camp once more before following Brunhart to the wagons.

“What's your name?”

“What does it matter? I'll be dead soon anyhow.”

“There are a lot of boys with us. We'll need something to call you by.”

“...Feylan.”

Brunhart frowned, and again felt pity tug at the corners of his heart. Clearly, no one here had bothered to care for the boy, and to be taken from this to either a painful death or the life of a witcher was hardly a great improvement.

But perhaps now the school would be better.

The last leg of the witchers' travels brought them to Crow's Perch, where they gathered supplies once more before making their final trek back up the mountains to Kaer Morhen.

“We should check the Trail of Treats,” Brunhart said. He knew that children were often abandoned to the woods when their families could no longer afford to feed them… or perhaps, in this case, when touched by the plague.

“...I'll go with you,” Lambert muttered in agreement.

Eskel stayed with the wagons at the head of the trail as Lambert and Brunhart ventured down the path. It became quickly apparent that they had likely arrived too late.

Lambert’s anger seemed to grow with every corpse they passed. “And people say witchers are monsters... when they send their children out to die.”

They had almost reached the end of the trail when Brunhart's eye at last caught movement – a wriggling bundle, wrapped in a threadbare blanket. An infant, abandoned in the snow.

Lambert rushed over as Brunhart scooped the baby up. “Damn, lucky kid…” He muttered.

Brunhart’s heart sank as he took the baby – by his size, he was likely only days old. The baby’s head was covered in a coppery fuzz, his eyes a warm amber. His cheeks were pink with fever, and his weak whimpers were pained.Brunhart wondered what sort of people would leave a newborn to the forest, especially one so weak and ill.

Brunhart awkwardly carried the baby as they walked back to the head of the trail, unsure of himself as he had never before handled an infant. He found himself unexpectedly drawn back to memories that were long since buried… but in this moment felt as though they had happened only moments ago.

_The only thing I’m regretful of… well, I always wanted to be a mother. And you’d make such a good father, I know._

Anya’s voice in his memory was clear and sharp – as though it hadn’t been a hundred years past since he’d heard it.

He’d always planned to make her a mother somehow – orphaned children were never in short supply, and he knew Anya would love any child as her own.

He’d never had the chance.

“Brunhart!” Lambert’s voice sounded, further away than he expected. “You coming?”

Brunhart glanced up and quickened his pace, his posture relaxing slightly as he found the baby settling more comfortably into his arms.

It was not long before the small caravan was visible at the head of the trail, Eskel frowning as he saw the baby Brunhart held. The boys in the wagons peered out curiously, warm sweet buns in their hands which Eskel had purchased from the inn at the town.

“Brunhart…” He muttered carefully, frowning. “This operation isn't the place for a baby, and he's not likely to last long.”

Brunhart looked up at him with a frown of his own. “I am aware,” Brunhart replied briskly. “But I would rather this child die comfortably than starving in this godforsaken swamp.”

Eskel could not argue, and fell silent, readying the carts to set off.

It was a foolish hope to have, Brunhart knew. The baby was clearly stricken with Catriona, his cries strained and quiet, his movements weak. But Brunhart felt connected to the child already.

Lambert was smirking at him. He put on an affected, mocking tone and said, “Men, a witcher’s life is not all cards and liquor. It is toil, it is labor. No gurgling babes to wean for us, nay, not for us.” He snickered.

Eskel rolled his eyes. “You ever gonna stop imitating Vesemir? No respect for the dead, honestly.” But a flicker of amusement crossed his face. “In seriousness, though, how are we going to take care of a baby? It’s not like there’s a wealth of travelling wet nurses we can hire.”

Lambert beamed. “I’m glad you asked, because I just so happen to remember the recipe for a potion Keira came up with to sell to orphanages. It’s got everything a mother’s milk has. Just a quick trip to the herbalist and I’ll—”

“Lambert making mother’s milk to feed to babies. Wait until Geralt hears about this,” Eskel interjected.

“Eskel, shut the fuck up. Now, I’ll ride ahead to the herbalist, you meet me up ahead.” Lambert took his horse and took off on the path back to the town.

“These boys are going to have the worst mouths,” Eskel muttered as Brunhart settled into the seat beside him on the cart. He glanced at the baby, the earlier displeasure in his expression softening. “Gonna name him?”

Brunhart considered the question. “Albtraum,” he answered after a moment of thought.

Eskel grinned. “Good name for a witcher. Well, let's get these boys home.”


	3. Chapter 3

_**KAER MORHEN, FEBRUARY 1283** _

 

Smoke billowed from the chimney of Kaer Morhen once again as the wolf school witchers approached. Their pace was not leisurely - the numbers of prospective students had dwindled on their travels, and would dwindle more still the longer it took them to administer the trials.

Against all odds, Albtraum had survived the journey up to this point, and grown stronger, even. Brunhart had constructed a sling of soft leather that held the baby swaddled close to him while leaving his hands free for riding and helping Eskel and Lambert with supplies. He'd been inexorably attached to Albtraum through everything, feeding him with the false milk Lambert brewed, keeping him warm and close on cold nights, nursing him through the fevers that made his sleep fitful and his cries weak and strained.

He was only an infant, and should not have survived. But in spite of this, his condition had steadily improved, and today he gurgled with contentment for what must have been the first time since Brunhart had rescued him from the forests.

The other boys had not fared as well, it seemed. Of the seventeen they had gathered together in Velen, eight survived to the gates of Kaer Morhen. They huddled together in the last remaining wagon, which had been made comfortable in spite of everything. Pillows and woollen blankets lined the otherwise rough wood floor, and Eskel frequently provided the boys with mild tonics to ease their discomforts, warmed in a mug in his hands with a gentle swell of Igni from his fingertips. Their food stores had only just begun to run out, and Kaer Morhen contained a vast stock of preserved foods to be eaten now that they had arrived.

Eskel let out a breath as he saw the smoke rising into the cold gray skies, a cloud forming before his face. "Shit. Looks like Ciri may have beaten us here."

"Guess we should go in and say hello, then." Lambert began to help the boys climb out of the wagon as they entered inside the gates. Feylan's hand shook as he reached for Lambert's, his thin fingers looking as though they would break in the witcher's grasp. Even Lambert, in his hard-heartedness, was not unmoved by the young elf's frail state, his golden eyes gentler than usual.

"I don't need your pity, d'hoine," Feylan snapped, but his high voice was weak and cracking.

Lambert said nothing in response, which was likely the kindest response he could muster from what Brunhart had seen of the abrasive young witcher.

The keep was warm as they made their way inside. True to Eskel's prediction, a young woman paced before the fireplace, her brow furrowed and her snowy hair wild with flyaway strands dancing around her face as she moved.

She came to an abrupt halt and looked up as the witchers entered, crying out as she saw them. "Eskel, Lambert!" She threw her arms around Eskel's neck and he awkwardly returned her embrace before breaking away so she could do the same to Lambert.

Lambert patted her back. "Good to see you, Ciri. Take it Geralt's not here?"

She drew back, biting her lip and shaking her head. Brunhart could see now that the young woman was a witcher, golden viper eyes and a wolf medallion. Female witchers were uncommon, but not unheard of - still, he'd never seen one in his lifetime.

Ciri glanced around at the group, taking in the unfamiliar faces. She settled on Brunhart, and he saw her eyes linger on his medallion. "Who's this?"

He stepped forward. "Brunhart of Lyria," he answered simply. "I was a classmate of Vesemir."

"You knew Uncle Vesemir… seems I'll need to ask you about that another time, though." Her gaze shifted to the small group of sickly boys. "Either you've gotten a very strange reward for a contract, or…"

Lambert sighed as he removed his coat and helped the boys find a place to settle in by the fire while they made their preparations. "We decided to start up the school again. Plague's ravaging the north. Seemed like a better way to recruit… when the Trial has the potential to save their lives rather than ending them."

Something like relief crossed Ciri's features. "It just so happens I've… come home with rather the same thing."

It was then that Brunhart's attention was drawn to the sound of a child's coughing on the other side of the hearth, and Ciri lead them around to where a small bed piled high with blankets stood. Under the blankets a young girl lay sleeping fitfully, her cheeks a telltale shade of pink, her face hot with fever. Her hair was the same silvery shade as Ciri's, and Eskel and Lambert stared before glancing at one another.

"She's your…?" Eskel began.

"Unexpected Child, yes," Ciri breathed. "Her name is Bec. I pursued a contract in Braithwaite, and seeing as the issuer was attempting to squirm out of paying me, I invoked the law of surprise. She was… my reward. A reward I was neither prepared for nor was I expecting."

Lambert scoffed. "Sort of the point of an  _ Unexpected  _ Child. Doubt Geralt was expecting you'd be dumped into his lap when he invoked the law."

Ciri sighed at him. "Point being, she contracted the plague as we travelled. I should have been more careful, because now I've no idea what to do to help the poor girl. I know the Trials are risky, but they may be the only thing that can save her life… and the lives of these boys, it would seem. But in a state like this…"

Brunhart still cradled Albtraum in his arms, saying nothing. A baby this small and weak would not survive the Trial, he knew that. Some part of him almost believed that if he simply kept him close and cared for him, perhaps he would be able to protect him from the illness that gripped his tiny body. But Brunhart knew better than to give in to such fanciful thinking.

"I'm hoping we may be able to get some help with that," Lambert muttered, quickly making his way toward the stairs and pushing past Ciri.

"We'll be back soon. Just get comfortable and rest," Eskel said to the group of boys as they watched with a mixture of curiosity and fear. 

The other witchers followed Lambert's path to a large bedroom in the tower, where Ciri's eyes lit up in recognition at the sight of a dusty contraption at the center of the room.

"Yen's megascope!" She shouted, rushing over to examine it. “She’s in Toussaint, but maybe we could…”

Lambert shook his head. “Not Yen. She hasn’t used this thing since she was here last. I’ve been using it to contact Keira.”

Eskel chuckled. “So, I haven’t been hearing you talk to yourself, then.”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “Look, if anyone can help us handle the plague, it’s Keira. And… I don’t know, she’s smart enough, maybe she can figure out how to help the kids through the Trials.” 

“Take it Keira is a mage, then,” Brunhart commented, shifting in place as Lambert fiddled with the megascope. He’d heard Eskel and Lambert mention the woman’s name a few times on their travels; clearly someone Lambert was romantically involved with. 

“Yeah. Hope that’s not going to be a problem.” Lambert eyed Brunhart carefully, with the ghost of a threat in his gaze.

“Not in the least. I’ve had ties to a sorceress in the past.”

Lambert seemed surprised as he continued working on the megascope. “Huh. Never struck me as the type.”

“So you were with a sorceress too, then?” Ciri asked, clearly curious. “What became of her?”

“...Witch hunters,” Brunhart answered gruffly, gaze fixated on the megascope.

Ciri frowned deeply. “I’m sorry.” 

Lambert made the sign of Aard, and the megascope hummed to life, casting a faint glow across the room. He stood and waited before the device for a few moments, seeming impatient until the spectral image of a woman appeared in the glow.

“ _ Lambert?”  _ the woman’s voice sounded, her face showing surprise. “ _ Where on earth have you been? Last I heard you were home for wintering, and then I don’t hear from you again for months!” _

“You can come to Kaer Morhen and box my ears later,” he replied quickly. “We need your help. Badly.”

_ “What is this about, Lambert?”  _

“We’re starting up the school again,” Lambert muttered, half-audible, as though afraid of how she might react. “We have… nine kids here, and they’re all sick. We’re putting them through the Trials right away to try and save them. But we need the help of a mage.”

Keira frowned at him, falling silent. A long moment passed before she spoke again. “ _ Get them ready. I’ll be there soon.” _

Lambert let out a breath and turned around. “Well, guess we’re doing this. Ciri, can you make up beds for the boys? And get the belts?”

Ciri nodded and rushed off to do so. Eskel made his way back to the fireplace to gather the children, who groggily made their way to the beds that Ciri was hastily making up. Bec, the young girl, followed along after them as well, looking exhausted and drawn.

Lambert, meanwhile, rummaged through the cupboards for the ingredients of the Trial. They were still there after all these years, jars and vials that sat sealed and preserved in the cupboards among the texts and instructions.

Lambert brought the vials used to deliver the serums into the veins of the prospective new witchers to the row of beds against the wall. 

“Did you use any of these for yours?” Lambert asked Ciri, setting the vials on the table. He seemed nervous, clearly trying to make conversation to distract himself.

Ciri shook her head. “No… Yen made her own for me to use.”

It wasn’t long before the sound of a portal opening came from the foyer, and soon after a blonde woman in dangerously loose-fitting clothing made her way to the row of beds. She sighed. 

“I’ll have you know I’ve made the king of Lyria wait for this,” She muttered, he brow furrowed. “Do you have the decoctions ready?”

“And waiting,” Lambert answered. 

“Eskel, Ciri,” the woman, who Brunhart assumed was Keira, greeted curtly. She turned to face Brunhart. “Who’s this?”

“Brunhart of Lyria,” he replied simply. 

“Perhaps you’d like to return to your homeland and explain to the king why I’ve had to leave him for a week at a moment’s notice, then.” She sighed, peering closer at Albtraum, who slept soundly in Brunhart’s arms. “Is this one ill too?”

“Yes, he is.”

Keira’s mouth screwed to the side in frustration. “We can’t possibly put a baby through the Trial. He doesn’t have the slightest chance to survive.”

When Brunhart readied himself to protest, she stopped him. “I’ll do what I can for him. I’ve had some success treating Catriona in the north, I can ease the plague until he has strength enough to withstand the mutations.”

Satisfied for the moment, Brunhart fell silent and stepped to the side.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he heard Eskel muttering to the children. “This will be painful, and some of you aren’t going to survive. But we’ll stay with you and do everything we can to help.”

A few of the older boys muttered prayers. The others looked wide eyed and fearful. The boy Brunhart recognized as Rand was muttering something to Feylan, who simply looked back at him with defeated resignation. 

Ciri made her way to Bec’s side. “I’ll be right here, I promise,” she said, taking the girl’s hand.

Bec swallowed hard and nodded, blue eyes filling with tears.

They were young, but each knew the possibility of death awaited them. It was a cruel reality to face at such a young age, but face it they must.

Keira gave the children an encouraging smile, though it was tight with worry. “Let’s begin then, witchers.”


	4. Chapter 4

The sun had barely broken the horizon, and Brunhart had not yet slept. He watched as Eskel stepped over to where Lambert slept slumped in a chair, gently touching the younger witcher’s shoulder to wake him. 

“ _ Mmh.  _ What’s going on?”

“Keira says they’re levelling off. Last of them will die in the next few hours.”

Lambert’s brow furrowed. “...How many left?”

“Three. Feylan, Rand, and Bec.”

He sighed, looking the barest amount relieved. “Better than I hoped, at least. ...I’ll get the graves ready.”

Brunhart sat, still holding on to Albtraum as he slept. He’d only put the child down but a few times in the past day, and usually only so Keira could administer treatments for his illness.

He looked to Eskel. “I should help.”

Eskel shook his head. “No, it’s alright. I’ll go with him.” He glanced back to where Keira stood softly muttering spells over the dying boys before following Lambert into the courtyard, where they had buried three boys already and had to prepare graves for two more.

The children who remained slept, somewhat fitfully, but the earlier screams of pain had quieted finally, and at last it seemed they’d found some relief from the pain. 

Ciri crept over from where she had knelt at Bec’s bedside and sat in the chair beside Brunhart, where Lambert had previously been. 

“So your girl going to survive?” Brunhart asked her cautiously.

Ciri nodded, relief and exhaustion clear in her expression. “Yes. Keira says she’s taken the Trials perfectly. I’m not sure how to feel… Glad she’ll be alright, or… guilty, that the other boys weren’t.”

“Best not to think too much on it, I think,” Brunhart offered.

“Mm. You’re probably right.” She sighed. “You said you trained together with Uncle Vesemir?”

“I did. But if you hoped for stories, I’m sorry to say I don’t have many. We rarely crossed paths.”

“It’s alright. I figured as much.” She glanced over at the beds, then back to Brunhart. “Ours will be closer, I hope. At least, it sounds like that’s what Lambert wants.”

“He’s right. They’ll do better if they are.” He noted that she stared at Albtraum in his arms, and he waited expectantly for her to say something else.

“Would it be alright if I hold him?” she asked carefully.

Brunhart nodded, carefully handing him over. He stirred, tiny brow furrowing in his sleep, before settling comfortably into Ciri’s arms. She held him cautiously, clearly unfamiliar with handling infants, but she smiled down at him nonetheless.

“He’s adorable,” she murmured. 

Brunhart couldn’t keep a chuckle from escaping him. “He is, isn’t he?”

They sat in silence for a long time, until Eskel and Lambert returned. Even then, the silence persisted, they were all exhausted with a mixture of worry, uncertainty, regret, and relief. 

“I’ll have to leave again soon,” Ciri finally muttered, breaking the silence.

Lambert scoffed. “You really are Geralt’s daughter.”

She rolled her eyes at him and carefully handed Albtraum back to Brunhart. “I’ve got some business to tend to. Just…” Her voice lowered. “Don’t let the children know who I truly am, if you can avoid it. I’m just Ciri… not the Child of the Elder Blood, not Emhyr’s daughter.”

“You’ve only ever been that to us,” Eskel answered her quietly. “Shouldn’t be hard.”

They sat and carried on sparse conversation as the sun rose; Keira soon joined them. The last two boys died late in the morning, and Lambert and Eskel set about the grim task of burying them. 

The last of the children finally seemed to fall into restful sleep, where they stayed for the next three days. Ciri left before the dawn on the third day, promising she’d be back for the next winter.

Feylan was the first of the children to wake up, blinking repeatedly in the dim light of the room as he adjusted to new eyes. They’d gone from icy blue to golden, slit pupils widening in the slight darkness. Witcher’s eyes.

He was startled as Lambert approached him, bowl of stew in hand. 

“Eat up, kid,” he encouraged as Feylan, bewildered, held the bowl and spoon. “You need it after all that.”

“Are we still sick?” Bec asked as Eskel handed her a bowl. 

“No, you’re all better. Better than ever. You’re witchers now,” Eskel explained. 

Rand smiled for the first time since he’d been with them. “So we’re gonna learn how to kill monsters now?”

“Soon enough, but you need to focus on getting your strength back now,” Keira said gently. “And I need to go back to Lyria.”

She and Lambert said their goodbyes in the foyer, and she kissed his cheek before summoning a portal and stepping through, vanishing as though she had never been there at all. 

The children ate voraciously from their bowls, each having three more helpings before they were satisfied. They rose from their beds, walking around the keep, on stronger legs than they had walked in on. Feylan was quiet, frowning, his brow furrowed. 

“...No one’s ever given me that much to eat,” he muttered to Lambert when he approached.

Confusion wrinkled Lambert’s brow before he understood. “Well, don’t need to worry about that anymore. You’ll get as much to eat as you want as long as you’re here.”

Something like hope dawned in the boy’s eyes, and for the first time in his life, perhaps - he looked happy.


	5. Chapter 5

_**REDANIA, MULBRYDALE, 1286** _

 

It had been a dark and rainy summer so far in the small Redanian province of Mulbrydale, but today the sun was shining, and so Mianna had made her way to the fields outside the town to pick blackberries from the bushes. Her basket was half full; she’d been eating them as she went. Her dress was dirty, her shoes soaked from the muddy ground, and her fingers were stained with berry juice. Her mother would scold her for her appearance when she returned home, she knew, but perhaps she would make a tart with the berries. That would make the admonishment worthwhile. 

Mianna was a wild little girl, all of six years old, her curly brown hair pulled back into a braid that had been neat in the morning, but was messy and loose now. Her sleeves were rolled up and her arms were covered in small scratches from the bushes, but she hardly noticed. The berries and the fun of tramping through the field on her own dulled any pains she may have felt.

She picked another berry from the bush and popped it in her mouth. It was sweet and juicy, perfect for a tart. Her mother was certainly going to be pleased. 

“Mia!”

She turned around on hearing her name called out, and saw her brother standing near the town’s fence. He was eight years her senior, and he’d gotten quite tall in the last years. He’d also grown serious, too dedicated to serving the church and training to become a witch hunter to play with her any longer.

She pouted. “I’m not done picking berries yet!” she shouted back, holding up the basket as though he could see from this distance that it was not yet full. 

“Mother says someone spotted a ghoul in the woods, so she said you’ve got to come inside.”

Mianna huffed and stamped her feet back to the edge of town, where she followed her brother back to the house. She glanced over her shoulder, as if hoping she might see the ghoul her brother had mentioned. But the horizon was empty. 

The sky had begun to darken with afternoon rain when they arrived back home, and Mianna deposited the basket of berries on the table for her mother to inspect. She stood and waited as she looked through the basket, delicately lifting and inspecting the berries before gently placing them back.

“Looks to be a good harvest,” her mother said with a chuckle. “Though you’ve had a taste already, haven’t you?” She gently pulled Mianna to her by the arm, wiping her mouth with the corner of her apron. 

“Mama, is there really a ghoul outside?” Mianna asked, muffled by the apron wiping across her mouth. 

“I’m afraid that’s what the hunters said. But you’ve got plenty of berries, we can pass the time by making a pie until they’ve tracked it down.”

Outside, rain had begun pouring, the large droplets rumbling on the roof and cooling the air. Mianna stood to be warmed by the heat of the oven as her mother cooked the berries in a pot and Cullyn stoked the fire. 

“Father says I’m to go to Oxenfurt next week,” he said as he finished with his work and moved to sit at the table. “He wants me to meet the bishops. I’ll be working with the hunters soon.”

Mianna sat across from him, remaining silent as her mother’s face fell into a slight frown. Cullyn had grown up, his face had begun losing its youthful chubbiness and the start of a beard had shown itself in the wisps on his chin. Still, he was not a man yet, and Mianna found it odd the way he spoke as one to their mother.

“I suppose you’ll have to go some time, but I wish they would at least give you this last summer.”

“To do what? Pick berries in the field? Bake pies?”

“That’s more fun than hunting stupid witches,” Mianna muttered, poking at the raw pie crust in the dish on the table. 

“It’s important work, Mia,” Cullyn shot back, but his tone had softened. “You’ll understand that one day.”

Mianna watched as her mother poured the berries and syrup into the pie crust before putting the dish into the oven. She didn’t want Cullyn to go to Oxenfurt, or become a witch hunter, though she couldn’t say she was happy with him staying here either, with the way he had become. 

The three of them sat conversing quietly as the rain continued, eventually eating the pie after it had cooked and cooled. Mianna’s father had not returned by nightfall, but her mother assured her he was likely hard at work hunting the ghoul. 

“I’m sure Father will be back soon,” Cullyn reassured her again as they settled into bed. 

Mianna said nothing, frowning in response and rolling over to face the wall.

She slept lightly for what must have been a few hours, and when she awoke the house was dark; all the candles had been snuffed and she could see from the silhouette across the room that her mother was sleeping alone; her father had not yet returned. 

Perhaps he had gone to the tavern after hunting; it was not far from their cottage and he often did so after his work. Carefully, without making a sound, Mianna crawled out of bed and slipped her boots on before sneaking out the door. The ground was damp and the night air was cool, and she walked along a short distance before realizing that all the lights in the tavern were dark. The hunters had not yet returned. 

She frowned, turning to run towards the forests. As she neared, she could hear voices and see the glow of torchlight - they were still searching for the ghoul. 

Mianna stopped, and listened - the voices in the distance sounded at ease, without the tightness of concern or panic. Surely so many men would have no trouble with one ghoul, once they found it… perhaps there was no need for her to worry after all. 

She turned on her heel to return home - and a gasp caught in her throat as she came face to face with a ghoul.

The first thing she noted as it approached her was the stench - then its horribly malformed, grotesquely almost-human face. 

It ran - almost like a dog, and pounced - Mianna turned, stumbling, and screamed, her hands instinctively raising as she braced herself to be torn apart.

But she never felt the claws rip into her, only a slight heat, and a bright light as flames burst from her open palms and engulfed the head of the ghoul, sending it reeling back, howling in pain.

She stood dumbfounded for a moment, watching it writhe in pain, before her wits returned to her and she bolted for the bushes. 

She ducked and curled up beneath a blackberry bush, nestling into the damp earth as she heard the hunters coming closer. Her heart beat so hard she could hear it in her own ears -  _ magic.  _

She did not know who she was more afraid would first discover her in the brush - the ghoul or the hunters. The previous winter a girl who Cullyn had counted among his friends had discovered herself to be a witch - accidentally, when one of the village boys had gotten rough and she’d raised a hand to defend herself and ended up burning off most of his hair. The hunters had been quick to drag her off, and Mianna knew enough even at six to know what had become of her.

Trembling, she tried to stay quiet - watching as the hunters approached the dying ghoul and quickly finished it off.

“Where’d the scream come from?” one of the men asked with a huff, looking around. His gaze passed over the bush where Mianna hid - but he did not see her.

Mianna watched as her father approached. He was a tall, handsome man with golden hair and bright green eyes, and his face was almost permanently set in a stern frown that was even deeper now.

“There’s no blood,” he muttered, barely audible from where Mianna was. He sniffed. “Flesh is burnt. Perhaps someone in the village hit it with a torch and ran off.”

The men stood conversing for a moment before returning to the village, their voices fading into the distance. Mianna stayed where she was, too afraid to move, until eventually panic exhausted her and she slipped into unconsciousness.

It was still dark when she woke again - to Cullyn’s panicked voice calling after her. 

“ _ Mia!”  _

She started, and sat bolt upright, nearly calling back to him - until the memories of the previous hours flooded back to her and she crouched down to hide again. Her father’s voice called out, her mother’s… They sounded concerned, but she feared what they would do when they learned what she was. She hadn’t the slightest idea how to control her magic. How long would she be able to hide? She wouldn’t dare test it. When the morning came.. She would run as far as she could. What remained of Temeria, perhaps… she’d heard it said they accepted mages there. 

Cullyn’s voice wavered with tears. “Where could she have gone?! You said the ghoul hadn’t gotten her!” he was shouting at their father, his fists clenched at his side.

Her father, ever stoic, responded in an even tone. “We didn’t see blood. But it is dark, Cullyn, and she would have been quick work for a ghoul--” 

She could hear her mother gasp, and Cullyn shouted something she couldn’t understand before running deeper into the field - shouting her name, and rushing right past her hiding place. She let herself expel the barest sigh of relief.

She felt tears welling in her eyes - it had been so long since Cullyn had expressed anything but disdain for her, and she wanted to run to him and embrace him, but she feared him now- that disdain would become outright hatred when he learned what she was. Her tears were hot as they rolled down her dirty cheeks. 

She sat for what must have been hours as Cullyn shouted himself hoarse in the distance, and her mother sobbed quietly as her father stood silently.

Cullyn eventually returned, looking exhausted, his cries having died down to hoarse whimpers as he followed his parents back to the cottage, trailed by hunters who muttered words of condolence. 

Mia crawled still deeper into the underbrush, curling in on herself before quietly sobbing until she fell asleep. 

She awoke to rays of sun dancing across her eyelids from between the leaves and branches above her, and she sat up, rubbing her eyes as they focused on the brush around her. It felt so much warmer and more welcoming in the daylight, and she thought perhaps she could stay here forever - of course, she would be found eventually. She had to start her journey to Velen.

She heard the hoot of an owl, and glanced up, seeing the shape of the large white bird in the branches. She had never seen such an owl, and to her surprise it fluttered down from the branches to settle on the ground in front of her. 

With a gentle flash of light, the owl grew and transformed - until it was no longer an owl, but a woman with dark hair in braids and a loose-fitting dress.

Mianna gazed at her wide-eyed, remaining still as though that would prevent her from being seen. This woman was no common village witch - she had the air of the powerful sorceresses the hunters had spoken of.

“You poor thing, have you laid here all night?” she asked softly, offering Mianna a hand to help her stand.

Mianna hesitantly accepted the help before nodding. 

“You have magic, don’t you? I can feel it.” Her eyes were odd - her pupils a light, almost transparent gray like the tadpoles that wiggled through the pond before they formed into frogs.

Mianna nodded again. “Are you a sorceress?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Yes. You can call me Philippa. What is your name?”

“M-Mia.”

“Well, Mia, would you like to leave this place? Somewhere safer, perhaps?”

Mianna nodded once more and took the woman’s hand as she offered it.

The bright light of a portal engulfed them, and Mianna turned to glance once more at the village, a place she would likely never see again.

As she turned, her eyes met another’s - Cullyn, stumbling into the field again, his eyes red and raw from crying, her last sight of him being his jaw dropping before the portal consumed them entirely, and the world around her went black.


End file.
